By Matthew Piling

For as long as I can remember, my mom has lived with some serious health challenges. A combination of colitis and chemically-based depression often kept her from participating in life the way she wanted to. Not knowing which days would be good and which would be hard, she simply did what she could when she could.

So when she was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 17, it almost felt like just one more thing added to what we were already used to. Sure, cancer was more serious—but the idea of Mom not feeling well for long stretches of time wasn’t new to us. Because of that, it took me a while to grasp just how hard this was on her. By the end of her treatments, though, it was clear: this was different. This was worse.

Still, Mom encouraged us to keep living life as normally as possible. So I decided to run for student body office. I worked hard and gave it my best, but I didn’t even make it past the first round of voting. A friend of mine who did make it to the next round asked me to come help him make campaign posters. Honestly? That was the last thing I wanted to do. But I figured I’d go help out for a little while.

That night, I pasted on a smile and made a few half-hearted posters before deciding to walk home. The quickest path took me through a couple of dirt fields. I was wearing Velcro-strap sandals and managed to cut my toe on some rocks. That whole walk home turned into a personal pity party.

In my 17-year-old mind, my life was crumbling: nobody voted for me, I had to walk home because I didn’t have a car, and my mom was dying of cancer. (She wasn’t dying—we had caught it early, and she had a great prognosis. But that didn’t fit the drama I was feeling in the moment.) If I’d known anything about the Universal Laws back then, I probably would have created a personal thundercloud right above my head.

When I finally got home, I headed up to my parents’ room. As I peeked in, my mom saw me and invited me to sit in the armchair by her bed. I sulked across the room and plopped down. She asked how my day had been. My eyes were dry and tired, so I closed and rubbed them as I gave her a full rundown of my very terrible day—and my even more terrible life.

After several minutes of my moaning and complaining, I felt something touch my knee. I opened my eyes and saw my mom kneeling in front of me. At some point, she had quietly slipped past me into the bathroom and returned with a bowl of water and a washcloth. She looked up at me with love in her eyes, slipped off my sandals, and began to wash my feet.

There was no fanfare. No ceremony. Just a tired, fragile woman doing the only thing she could in that moment to show her son she loved him.

And I felt it. Deeply. I felt loved in a way I never had before.

We’d always had a good relationship, and I’d always respected her. But in that moment—seeing someone so frail, giving so much—I was changed. I saw what it truly cost her to be a mother. The selflessness I had grown up taking for granted suddenly came into sharp focus. I understood, maybe for the first time, the depth of her sacrifice.

Even now, nearly thirty years later, I’m still moved by that moment. And, because of some chemo-related memory loss, she doesn’t even remember doing it.

I would never wish cancer on any family. It’s a brutal, heartbreaking disease no one should have to endure. But in one of the darkest chapters of our family’s life, I was given a precious gift. Actually, two.

First, my relationship with my mom deepened in a way I don’t think would have been possible without the suffering. And second, I learned a truth I’ll never forget: there is good in every situation, no matter how bleak. If we’re willing to look for it, God will help us find it.

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